The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Tuesday nights, the one night of the week when none of them had a class, had become pub night. Habituation had done what habituation does, making Mark forgetful, and his first pint of Guinness was fully drained before he realized he’d blown an important protocol on the very first night.

“Oh shit.”

“What?”, Jorge, one of his drinking buddies, asked. The small but ruggedly handsome half-Mexican was the only one ofthe group who managed to glance away from the Knicks game on the raised flatscreen.

Mark could feel the small square of gauze taped to the inside of his left wrist, the flesh underneath lightly burning as if shamed by his forgetfulness. No one had noticed the white patch, or if they had they hadn’t asked. Too bad, because that might have reminded him, and too bad it hadn’t been his right wrist, his mug-lifting wrist, because that too might have helped him remember he’d sworn to avoid even a drop of alcohol for the whole two weeks, signing and dating an officious contract that very morning.

He couldn’t tell Jorge anything, not without violating a second provision of the contract. “I have to go. I have to study for a, uh, a thing,” he said, pushing his chair back and reaching for his leather jacket.

All four of his friends had abandoned the gravity pull of the basketball game now, a minor miracle. They appeared stunned, and were staring right at... No, not at him; the four pair of eyes were all locked on something just past his right shoulder.

“Hello boys, mind if we join you?”

He swiveled his upper torso, and nearly brushed against the outer reaches of Karen Corso’s voluminous tits.

Good fucking God, right here, right now as he was leaving, the human version of basketballs. Karen’s wondrous wobblers were on full display tonight in a clinging turquoise top with a broad, scooping neckline. Endorphins hitched saddles to hormones inside every male brain, resulting in matching stupid grins and hanging lower lips. It wouldn’t have surprised anyone to see the dark mahogany table slowly levitate half a foot off the floor, powered by four erections below.

“Mark was just leaving,” Brian recovered first, indicating the vacant chair, right across from his position. Thinking of the frontal view he’d have, no doubt.

“Hi Mark, why are you leaving?” Cynthia Gilwood said, her small voice coming from somewhere behind the attention-sucking field of Karen Corso’s tits. “It’s so early,” she added.

He looked down—you always had to look down to find Cynthia, because she wasn’t even quite five feet tall. She made it pretty obvious sometimes that she was self-conscious of her height, or lack of height, like she thought she looked a bit like a freak. Mark did think Cynthia looked like a freak, but not in the way her mindset seemed to expect. She had a great shape overall, just miniaturized, like someone had zapped her with a shrink-ray for a couple of seconds in the womb.. And, as if to compensate, she had been given one of those truly great faces, all perfectly symmetrical with beguiling, delicately chiseled features, including lips and eyes that might not have been subjected to the shrink-ray quite as long. There was a lot of pure white around the deep green of those eyes, and above them, dark and as expressive as a belly-dancer’s abdomen, arching eyebrows that sometimes wiggled as she spoke.

In the company she was keeping tonight, Cynthia’s green eyes and supple eyebrows were right at her taller friend’s nipple level. He looked past Karen’s copious curvature, eventually, helped by the fact that Karen and her tits slipped past to occupy his vacated chair.

“Gotta study tonight,” he repeated his lame lie, pulling an empty chair from another table and placing it next to Karen’s new seat. He waved a qhick good-night to his drinking friends, and Karen’s wondrous super-boobs, and Cynthia’s compelling eyebrows, arched tonight to express... who knew what. What an idiot he was, probably, to walk out right when two beautiful young women appeared.

It was warm and drizzly on the short walk to his tiny studio apartment, the amber glow of streetlights creating glistening amorphous triangles in the thick air. On these misty screens appeared mental pictures of Karen Corso’s cleavage, wobbling with 3D close-up clarity. She was only in one of his classes, Twentieth Century Painting and Sculpture, a lecture course with so many students that it was held in the school’s largest auditorium. He’d noticed her the very first day of classes–everybody had, probably. Drawn like a bee to two of the brightest flowers he’d ever see in this lifetime, he sometimes chose a seat behind her and slightly to one side, giving him a halfway decent view of either the right breast or the left, causing whatever blouse or sweater she wore to power forward like the nose of an airplane on its way to another time zone.

Did she know that he and others stared with fascination, and more? Did she even know his name? She never quite entered into his circle of friends, always on the periphery, out of reach. Until tonight, joining his group just as he was leaving, in the company of another babe to lust over for entirely different reasons.

A single pint of beer wasn’t enough to affect his balance, but the almost painful erection distorting the front of his jeans was enough to slow his walk. He hadn’t known that Karen Corso and Cynthia Gilwood were friends, and seeing them together was like being faced with a sexual riddle concerning size. What letter of the alphabet must be on the label of Karen Corso’s bras? What made it so insane was how the rest of her was really trim and tight, like the shrink-ray that had sapped Cynthia Gilwood of height had been set to reverse polarity and aimed narrowly to affect only Karen’s chest. The allure of all that voluminous vixenation was instantaneous, but wouldn’t Cynthia be the possessor of an entirely different set of treasures? She couldn’t weigh more than eighty-five or ninety pounds, tops, almost light enough to toss in the air while humping. And frankly, how tight must her pussy be?

Ten minutes later, inside his apartment, it wasn’t a conscious decision that had his hand slowly stroking his cock. He had peed out processed Guinness—would they know somehow that he’d had a pint when he met with them first thing in the morning—and had stripped naked before collapsing onto his mattress. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to wrap his hand around the aching hard tower down there, warming it, soothing it.

He had never been so close to Karen Corso’s tits before, and he was sure that each one had to be the size of her head. He pictured them stretching the fabric of her top and slowly stroked up the tower, the flesh between thumb and forefinger lifting for a second the ultra-sensitive rim of his purplish crown. Oh Jeezus that felt good, and so hot, and the inside of his wrist was hot too, hot and almost burning.

“Ouch.”

Really burning, the skin under the little square patch of gauze. Itchy, too.

He was using his left hand to masturbate; for some reason he always used his left hand, like that was how he’d been wired from the beginning. Because the left wrist was the one with the patch and all this motion was making the skin under the patch burn and itch like mad, he let go of his ramrod dick, which jerked and swept right across the surface of the patch, the tip even digging in for half a second, catching on the edge where the patch lacked adhesive tape.

At least his dick hadn’t partially removed the patch, which would have been a second violation of protocol. But fuck, it was really burning and itching now, enough that he was shaking his hand at the wrist while waving his arm through the air, anything that might soothe it.

“Fuck! Ahh!”

Chiggers. He’d gotten chiggers once in grade school, and it felt like he had an army of them under that two-inch square, chiggers that had mated with fire ants.

“Yaahhh!”

Jeezus fucking Santa Claus humping a reindeer, now it was the tip of his dick that felt chiggered, only way hotter. Just like that his boner withered into a flopper and he hopped out of bed and found himself jumping up and down and running in place, instinct making him move, making him leap and run to the bathroom and turn on the shower. Hot water, not cold, scalding steaming water but wait, he also wasn’t supposed to get the patch on his wrist wet. But fuck the patch, it was the tip of his dick that had been fucking invaded by the bigger army of mutant fire chiggers, so he pulled the plastic curtain aside and stepping into the scalding spray with his left arm left out in space, dry space, hot water saturating his abdomen and groin, making him wince but also blow out a sigh of relief, anything but the fire ant chiggers.

He soaped his right hand and cleansed his soft dick, lathering the whole thing and his balls, too, and rinsing the area before the heat of the water became too much and he had to hop from the shower before the middle of his body became a plate of broiled lobster.

His cock was red; the whole area was red, but at least the fire ant chiggers had been vanquished. They no longer plagued his wrist, either, like the demise of their brethren on his cock had acted like a successful warning for the whole colony to calm down.

Mark no longer had any thoughts of masturbating. His meat throbbed, but more like an organ in a state of shock than an organ wanting playtime. He peed out any remaining traces of the night’s contraband Guinness, and padded to his dresser, slipping into a fresh pair of boxers with the gentleness of a veterinarian placing a blanket over a wounded animal. His dick felt... weird. Half-cooked, probably, but also pulsing, like it had called public works and gotten a new pipeline constructed that connected it straight to his heart.

Under the covers he looked at the clock on his phone; shit, time had flown and it was heading onto midnight, and he had to wake up super-early to get to the lab before his first class. He set the alarm and once again wondered: Will they be able to measure somehow that I had that pint of beer? Being the first day of the two-week trial, he had no idea what they would do with him this time. Remove the patch and sttudy the skin? Possibly. Give him another pill, definitely, which might be their experimental drug or a placebo, he had no idea. He didn’t even know if the technicians had any clue which guinnea-pigs were receiving which pill; they probably didn’t, to keep them from behaving any differently, giving out unconscious signals.

Giving out a check, too, but only at the end. The stipend he’d receive in two weeks wasn’t all that much, but for a cash-strapped student with two months to go before even the possibility of a summer job, he really needed it. So no way would he tell them he’d fucked-up and downed a beer the very first night. No unconscious signals from him, either, no guilt. If they asked, he’d stay calm and say no, I’ve been a good boy.

No unconscious signals. Got to fall asleep to get up early. So close to Karen Corso’s gigantic juggs, close enough to drool right on top of them. No unconscious signals. Pussy must be in miniature like the rest, so fucking tight. Signals.

Unconscious.

Two massive bouncing breasts. Karen’s hands nearly disappeared as she made fists and pressed those fists against her nipples, which in turn pressed all of that volume against her ribcage, which in turn caused the contours of her boobage to swell out in every direction, two supple planetary discs growing larger at the circumference, presaging some kind of explosion.

“I’ll show you what kind of explosion,” she purred through full, almost swollen lips. Her brown eyes beamed lust, beamed need, beamed right down at his bare fully erect dick.

She had a bottle of baby oil, a tall sixteen-ounce bottle. She held it briefly in front of her face, the corners of a smile visible behind the bottle’s edges, a smile that conveyed all she didn’t need to say, that what good would a smaller bottle do when she had so much acreage of tit to slather.

She slathered. The tipped bottle poured and Karen Corso’s breasts swallowed every ounce, glistening so such that he thought he’d go blind. His cock responded with the energy of a gazillion fire ants, a gazillion legs-times-six spinning energy-producing spinning wheels, all in anticipation of being tit-fucked by the biggest and best rack on campus. Hell, probably a dozen campuses.

“And I’m next,” he heard from behind Karen. Oh God, it was Cynthia, waiting for her go with him. He wanted to see what need looked like on that gorgeous face, in those wide gren eyes, but he couldn’t open his own eyes for some reason, like they’d been glued shut. It was weird because he could see Karen, see her humongous oiled tits—maybe she had so much sex-appeal that her body radiated right through closed eyelids? She had positioned her naked contours, Jeez those freaking contours, above him on all fours, oil beading up and dripping from her engorged nipples, nectar drawn by gravity, gravity causing her breasts to elongate even further than normal. Holy shit they were so huge, the line of cleavage between them so much deeper than he was long, and he wasn’t small by any means.

His dick had never felt this way before. It was like an erection with whipped cream and a cherry on top, with all the fire ants inside joining legs to create complex structures that spilled beyond the anatomy of his dick, an interlocked trail of fire instructions running up his spine, up the vertebrae of his neck, ants reaching into his brain and plugging their needle-like legs into circuitry and Zap!, the connection was established just as Karen bent her arms slightly, Jeezus fuck, her boobs were so long hanging down like this that she only had to bend her arms the littlest bit to engulf his overheated cock-head in a sea of glistening pulchritude.

Maybe it was having a rack so huge that caused an automated beeping sound to emerge from her body, like on construction vehicles when they back up. She bent her arms further and Beep Beep Beep her slick tits were lowered all around more of his dick, so warm, so exquisite, so insanely vast and heavy.

“Guhhh!” he gushed out air. He wanted to say “Oh yes Karen, all the way down, smother me and rock them and rock me, oh yes!”, but the trail of ants didn’t reach to his mouth and the sentence came out as, “Ohmum allooof muh anropmuh!”

Hearing the dysfunctional sound of his voice caused him to peel the weight of his eyelid uppers from his eyelid lowers, and just like that Karen Corso was gone, and her gigantic oiled tits were gone, and heard but unseen Cynthia Gilwood and the promise of her vise-tight pussy was likewise gone. What remained was the beeping from Karen’s body, which he recognized as the beeping from the alarm. Also real and in a real state of distress was a severe case of the hardest hottest morning wood that had ever seen the light, barely, of a brand new day. Mark had awakened some mornings with wood to beat the band; hell, every adult male on earth had. But this one, this hardwood sequoia of an erection seeking the light, straining as if to brush the ceiling...

Without question, without thought, his left hand reached for this pulsating skyscraper of super-sensitivity, ready to do what any compassionate hand would do in such a time of extreme need. But then his eyes saw the white of the patch on his wrist, and neurons fired that caused his head to tilt to the right, and the numbers represented a particular time of the morning that released a burst of adrenaline, instantly contracting the muscles of his ribcage until he was suddenly sitting up in bed with his heart pounding, the words, “I overslept!” like an ejector button that had him on his feet and fully awake.

Got to dress, no time for coffee, no time to eat, socks and shoes, five minutes to run to the science building for the can’t-be-late appointment with some technician and the check attached that would come at the end of two weeks.

His heart raced. His feet raced. His dick shrank, but only for now. Some people call dicks “one-eyed-snakes”, but of course they aren’t real snakes, and the eye isn’t an eye at all, just an anatomical hole. So Mark’s shrunken dick didn’t wink, unseen, because it couldn’t.

It would have if it could have. It would have winked and performed impossible cartwheels and shot fireworks into his pants, right at the moment a few notes of a Beatles’ song came to him on the street, accompanied by only a few of the words: Isn’t it good, something something wood.